


How Do I Get You Alone?

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Blind Date, Fluff, M/M, POV Tony Stark, Pining, Plotting, Trapped In A Closet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-18 12:36:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21610996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Ever since he got back to this plane of existence, Tony’s known that Peter was going to be a problem for him. Knew that he wanted more from the kid than he would ever want to give, and that meant Tony had to keep himself in check. Everything's fine until his best friends start conspiring to break Tony's carefully-cultivated control.
Relationships: James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark, Natasha Romanov & Tony Stark, Nebula & Tony Stark, Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 30
Kudos: 352
Collections: Marvel(ous)Universe





	How Do I Get You Alone?

Of all the corners from which Tony might have experienced betrayal, this is the last one he expected.

Maybe once upon a time he would have thought twice about trusting the Black Widow. She’s double crossed him before. It’s practically her calling card.

Ever since they were both unceremoniously pulled back from death with a waggle of Stephen Strange’s twitchy fingers, however, there’s been a bond between them. Sure, she may scowl when Tony greets her with a cry of “Resurrection Buddy!” but he can tell she cares.

Which is why he agreed to this ridiculous endeavor in the first place. She’s the entire reason he’s standing outside the curving edifice of the Guggenheim waiting for, of all things, his blind date to show up.

It’s not something Tony would have sought out on his own. Nat had literally ambushed him. One moment he’d been alone in the lounge at the Avengers compound, futzing around with one of the suit designs on a Starkpad, and the next he’d been startled by a voice from above his head.

“You’re lonely.”

Nat’s dry tone didn’t cast judgment. She’s good about that. But it was … assessing. She perched on the back of the sofa and narrowed her eyes at him.

“I’m not lonely,” Tony had replied, after his heartbeat had returned to a less frantic speed. “I’m a loner. There’s a difference.”

“You haven’t been out of the compound in months outside of Avengers business,” she said.

“Yes, well, I’m a very important man,” Tony countered. “People come to me, I don’t go to them.”

Nat had just speared him with a sharp smile.

“Bullshit,” she said, followed quickly by “I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”

Tony had caved because he trusted her, trusted that Nat had his best interests at heart. Even though the very last thing he wanted was to go on a date.

He’s still sore from Pepper moving on during the three years he’d been dead. He doesn’t blame her, but that doesn’t mean it hurts less. And honestly, Tony’s just enough of a bastard to want to cling to that hurt, to use it as fuel at a time when the world feels so uncertain.

But maybe, if he’s totally honest with himself, he is a little lonely. The other Avengers are often around, but they don’t live full-time at the compound like Tony. He sees Morgan every other weekend, but it never feels like enough time.

A part of him wants someone other than Friday to scold him when he spends too much time in the lab, or just to be a warm presence in the bed next to him when he wakes up shuddering from a nightmare. Someone to share a life with. He had that, once. 

Besides, he trusts Nat. He trusts her with his life in a fight, and to make him a proper cup of coffee when he’s jonesing hard, and apparently even to find him a date. He trusts her right up to the moment when he sees a disturbingly familiar curly head bobbing and weaving through the crowd on the sidewalk in front of the museum. Then he curses her name.

“Mr. Stark!” Peter Parker’s voice calls when he’s still several yards away from Tony, waving his arms above his head.

Peter’s hair is wind-ruffled, his cheeks and nose are pink from the cold November wind, and the tails of his coat are being whipped behind him by the breeze, as he hasn’t bothered to button it. He’s a picture of youth and beauty, and the shine on him is almost blinding.

“Hey, Mr. Stark,” Peter says when he finally reaches Tony.

He smiles warmly at Tony with wind-chapped lips, and all the warning bells start sounding in Tony’s brain. There’s a reason, there’s a very good reason that he has kept his distance from Peter Parker since his resurrection, and it has not a little to do with the way that smile makes his stomach flip. Seriously, fuck Natasha Romanov and her meddling ways.

After a silence so long that it borders on awkward, Tony finally manages to pull himself together well enough for a greeting.

“Pete,” he says, reaching out to slap the kid on the back. That’s ok, isn’t it? Friendly. Mentorly. Nothing that could be construed as a bad touch. “Good to see you, kid. How’re classes going?”

Peter had opted for Columbia rather than MIT without Tony’s guidance to make his choice. He’s in his junior year now studying biochemical engineering and physics, and Tony’s pretty sure he’s going set the world afire any day now. He keeps track of his grades as well as his extracurricular time as Spider-Man, and he knows, at least on paper, that the kid is thriving.

“Good,” Peter says. “They’re really good. I’m working as a TA this semester for Professor Connors, and we’ve been doing some really interesting work on gene editing. Very, um, sci-fi stuff, you know?”

At the “um” Peter gives a little shiver that makes Tony grit his teeth. Well, he would shiver, wouldn’t he? That thing he’s wearing can hardly be called a coat it’s so thin, and he hasn’t even buttoned it. And the shirt he’s wearing underneath, one of Peter’s nicer button-downs, is so thin and tight-fitting that Tony can practically see his nipples.

Or, not practically. His gaze zeroes in while Peter talks about the gene therapy applications of his research. Yup. There they are. Whipped into small, stiff peaks by the breeze. _Hello boys,_ Tony thinks before swallowing thickly and mentally slapping himself. That is neither friendly nor mentorly.

A bit frantic to silence the voices in his own head, Tony reaches for the scarf wrapped around his own neck, unties the knot at the base of his throat and transfers it to Peter’s shoulders. Tony is perfectly warm without it because he is a grown-up with a well-lined and _buttoned_ wool overcoat.

He satisfies himself by tying the scarf efficiently around Peter’s neck and then pulling at the sides of his jacket until he can button it, bottom to top while Peter continues to talk research.

“So then we started the mouse, uh, trials … Mr. Stark?”

Peter’s a little out of breath when Tony reaches the top button, tucking the tails of the scarf inside the coat, and looking up at last into Peter’s face.

“Hm?” Tony says. “I’m listening. I’ve always felt bad for the mice in that kind of research. One of the reasons I’m glad engineering testing is more hands on.”

“Hands on,” Peter repeats, distantly, and Tony wonders if the kid is getting enough to eat. He knows that super-powered metabolism requires at least six square meals a day to keep it really humming. “Mr. Stark, what are you …”

“Seriously, kid, you’re making me cold standing there like that. Take the scarf. And I’ll have Happy send over a better coat. This is not cutting it.”

Tony demonstrates by running his hands down the front of the insufficient outerwear before realizing that no, no that’s not something that a normal, unattached, distant father figure would do, and pulls his hands back as though he’s been burned.

Peter doesn’t seem to notice. He just nuzzles at the red cashmere scarf that sets off the gold flecks in his eyes to perfection.

“You don’t have to do that,” Peter says. “But this is nice.”

He buries his nose further down into the scarf and breathes in deep while looking directly into Tony’s eyes. It does _things_ to Tony. Things it shouldn’t do. Things he shouldn’t allow.

“Suits you,” Tony says, words coming out of his mouth unbidden.

Peter’s cheeks turn an entirely different pink to the wind-whipped color of a moment before, and the bizarre thought pops into Tony’s mind that he’d like to lick that color right off the kid’s skin. He’s certain, in that moment, that it would taste like strawberries and fresh cream. It’s been a long time since he’s been allowed to have strawberries.

And this, this right here is why he doesn’t allow himself to be alone with Peter Parker. Tony gives himself a mental shake and tries to focus.

“So,” he coughs, redirecting his eyes over Peter’s shoulder instead of on his face. “Da Vinci sketches, right? Shall we?”

The whole time they’re filing into the museum and buying their tickets, Tony wonders what Natasha told the kid this outing was. She’d never explicitly told Tony it was a date, now that he thinks back. But she’d certainly implied. She’d wanted him to make the assumption.

Peter, on the other hand, seemed to know exactly who he was meeting. Not for a date, of course. But, he supposes, for a friendly check-in. Peter’s been busy with classes and TA work for the past couple months, and even before that Tony had been careful to make sure they didn’t have alone time. Luckily, it’s easy to tempt Bruce into the lab if you periodically throw in a new centrifuge or spectrometer.

Ever since he got back to this plane of existence, Tony’s known that Peter was going to be a problem for him. Probably he sensed it before then. But he knew for sure the second that Peter threw himself into his arms post-resurrection. Knew that he wanted more from the kid than he would ever want to give, and that meant Tony had to keep himself in check.

Maybe guiding Peter around a crowded gallery with a hand at the small of his back, watching him lean in close to some of the sketches, seeing his eyes go wide in awe at the tiny details … Well, maybe none of that exactly goes hand-in-hand with his strategy of detached benevolence toward Peter. It isn’t Tony’s fault, though. This is all on Natasha. That little bit of plausible deniability allows him to unclench enough to actually enjoy the outing.

After Peter’s eyes have taken on the overwhelmed glaze of someone who’s taken in too much culture in one go, Tony suggests dinner. They walk to a nearby hole-in-the-wall Italian place where Peter gets pasta primavera and Tony gets osso buco, and they steal shamelessly off of each other’s plates. Halfway through cannoli and coffee, and at the tail-end of an argument about the limits of nanotechnology (“ _Mr. Stark, if you talk any more about injecting nanites into your brain, I am staging an intervention,”_ ) it occurs to Tony that, if this were a date, it would be the best he’s been on in maybe forever.

The very thought sours his stomach, and he puts his cannoli down unfinished. Peter’s head is thrown back in laughter at some stupid pun Tony made, and his skin is glowing warm in the candlelight. The couple at the booth diagonal from them are whispering together and giving Tony weird looks that he knows have to be related to him wining and dining someone 30 years younger than him. Well, not wining, because Peter is 20, and can’t even legally drink. _Fuck._

Tony waves the waiter over and asks for the check.

“Sorry to cut this short, kid,” he tells Peter, attempting to keep the undercurrent of panic out of his tone. “Got some paperwork I’ve still got to finish up for Pep tonight. So I better call it a night.”

“Oh,” Peter says, and Tony doesn’t miss how the kid’s face falls at his announcement. “Sure, of course, Mr. Stark. This was nice. It’s, uh, it’s been a while since we got to hang out like this.”

“Well, you’re a busy guy these days, Pete,” Tony says, flippantly. “How can I compete with gene splicing and animal testing?”

“Alright,” Peter says, burying his head in his hands. “I feel bad enough about the mice. You don’t have to rub it in.”

“All I’m saying is that AI simulations are also pretty good at this sort of thing.”

“I’ll make sure to let my professor know that,” Peter says, raising his head and rolling his eyes at Tony. “Maybe we can do this again, though. Soon?”

The hopeful lilt to his voice squeezes Tony’s heart in a vice. He has been neglecting the kid, and that’s not fair. His feelings are his own fucking problem. Peter shouldn’t have to deal with them. He’ll have to arrange some quality lab time with him and Bruce soon.

“Sure, Pete,” he says. “I’d like that. Anytime.”

They hug goodbye outside of the restaurant, a move that Tony intends to be a friendly back-slapping thing, but which transforms somehow into a full body embrace, their chests pressed together and his nose buried inadvertently in Peter’s hair.

It’s Peter who pulls back first because Tony has _no self control,_ stuffing his gloveless hands deep into his pockets and looking up at Tony from under a fringe of dark hair.

“Alright,” he says with a half smile and a little nod, taking a few jolting steps backward. “Goodnight, Mr. Stark.”

“’Night, kid,” Tony whispers back through an incredibly dry throat.

He gives Peter an awkward little wave as the kid spins on a heel and walks away. Tony should move, but instead he watches until Peter turns the corner toward the nearest subway station.

The drive back to the compound gives Tony plenty of time to work up a good head of steam. So he’s ready to throw down by the time he storms into the common room to find Natasha curled up watching a movie, no doubt waiting for his return.

“What the actual fuck was that Romanov?” he yells.

“Did you not have a good time?” She asks, wide-eyed and disingenuous. “That’s disappointing. And I thought you were such a good match.”

“You said you had someone you wanted me to meet!” Tony accuses, waggling his finger at him like a scolding grandmother. “Turns out, we’ve met before. He was fourteen at the time, unless that piece of information somehow slipped through your spy network.”

“And that would be a pretty serious problem, if he were still 14. Is he still 14, Tony? Does Peter Parker have some incredible anti-aging powers that I don’t know about?”

“Have I wronged you in some way?” Tony asks, the fight slowly seeping out of him. “Am I being punished?”

“Have you done something to be punished for, do you think?”

“Alright, Socrates,” Tony says, slumping. “Don’t tell me what you’re up to. Just know that I don’t appreciate you fucking me around.”

Childishly, he stomps out of the room.

“Tony,” Natasha calls just as he reaches the door.

Tony’s mad, but not mad enough to ignore her outright, so he turns with a mulish grimace on his face.

“Tony,” Natasha starts again. “We died. Doesn’t that, even a little bit, make you want to stop wasting time? Would it be the worst thing to just let yourself have this thing? Some one to make you happy after everything we’ve been through?”

Natasha’s usually smarter than this, which is maybe why her words feel exactly like a punch in the nose. She’s gone all soft now that she and Bruce have worked things out. That Incredible Hulk dick must have muddled her brain.

“Yes,” Tony says, breathing sharply through the pain. “Yes it would be the worst thing. Because if I try to let myself have too much then I lose him. And that’s not an option.”

Her posture softens, and she tilts her head to the side sympathetically. Tony can tell she wants to say something else, but he very much is not in the mood. So he stomps away before she can try.

In his own suite, Tony pours himself three fingers of whiskey to help him forget the feeling of having Peter pressed up against him, fingers flexing against the fabric of Tony’s shirt, cold nose rubbing against his neck.

He’s in a piss poor mood, but it doesn’t stop him from picking out a warm winter coat, scarf and gloves for Peter and having Friday to expedite the order so it’s there when Peter heads out to class in the morning. If Tony gets a little thrill out of the thought of Peter wearing things he picked out, that’s between him and his conscience. And Natasha Romanov doesn’t get a say in it at all.

*

The thing about betrayal is that experiencing it in one quarter doesn’t prepare you for it coming from different directions. So when Rhodey suggests they spend the weekend up at the cabin, Tony doesn’t question it. They have plans to fish, grill, and drink beer by the fire.

“You’ve looked more stressed than usual, man,” Rhodey says when he’s wheedling Tony into agreeing to the trip. “I think this would be good for you.”

So Tony agrees, and he doesn’t really think it’s strange when Rhodey says he’ll meet Tony up there instead of driving together. He’s a busy guy, after all. Military missions require a lot of time and focus.

He’s in the kitchen chopping peppers and onions for the grill when Rhodey’s car pulls up in the driveway. Tony tosses the dishrag in his hands over his shoulder and goes out to greet his friend.

“Snookums!” he calls, throwing his arms wide in greeting. “You’re just in time to avoid any and all prep work and drink most of my beer.”

He gets not even the slightest tingle of concern until he hears the door on the far side of Rhodey’s Prius slam and sees a very familiar profile. Rhodey gives him a chagrined smile, and Tony’s stomach sinks. _No, no, no. Not him too. Rhodey wouldn’t do this. Rhodey loves him._

“Hey, Mr. Stark!” Peter greets with an enthusiastic wave.

Tony’s tongue gets temporarily lodged in the back of his throat, and he just barely manages to untwist it with a powerful cough.

“Pete!” he says with what is definitely a tone of warm welcome and not that of a man on the edge of a breakdown. “What a nice surprise.”

“Hope you don’t mind, man,” Rhodey says. “Peter’s been helping me brief some of the newest recruits for the Avengers liaison program, and it’s a pretty shit job. I thought he could use a little time away from the city, too.”

“Of course,” Tony says. “The more the merrier.”

The steaks haven’t even made it to the grill yet when Rhodey takes a “phone call” and then comes back to make his excuses.

“Sorry, man, duty calls,” he says, scooping up a suspiciously light overnight bag from right by the door. “Peter can ride home with you tomorrow, right? I don’t really have time to drop him before I report in.”

“Et tu, Rhodeybear?” Tony says through gritted teeth.

“He’s just a cute guy, Tones,” Rhodey says with a completely unrepentant smirk on his face. “You still know how to handle a cute guy, don’t you? I hear it’s like riding a bike.”

Tony’s eyes go wide and his nostrils flare.

“There will be no riding,” he says indignantly. “And you cannot leave me alone with him.”

“And why’s that exactly?”

“Because I can’t be trusted,” he hisses.

“That’s what I’m counting on.”

“Rhodey!”

“Have fun, Tones!” Rhodey says, shooting him a wink as he walks out the door.

“James Rhodes you come back here this instant!” Tony whisper-screeches, sounding for all the world like his nonna on the warpath.

Rhodey just gives him a lazy backhanded wave and walks to his car.

Tony curses. Peter’s in the kitchen, and if he goes into the kitchen then they’ll be there. Together. In the kitchen. Alone. If he doesn’t, then he’s just the jackass standing at his own front door watching the _worst best friend in the world_ drive away.

When he finally screws up his courage, he finds Peter sitting on the kitchen counter, swinging his legs back and forth. One of his giant textbooks is open beside him, his lips moving as he reads. He looks up from the book when Tony knocks a hip against his dangling leg and gives him a shy smile. Tony doesn’t deserve anything about that smile.

He busies himself by pulling out the steaks and starting to season them.

“So, catching up on some homework, kid?” he asks.

“I thought maybe the peace of the woods would help me concentrate on the polytropic index,” Peter says, effortlessly hefting the tome at his side up to reveal it’s an astrophysics book. “But no dice so far. I’m worried I might have a mental blockage when it comes to space. This shouldn’t actually be hard.”

Even the oblique reference to Peter’s unfortunate time in space makes Tony suck in a harsh breath. He releases it slowly, telling himself that if the kid isn’t freaking out about this, he doesn’t have a right to do so either.

“I could quiz you,” he offers, keeping his eyes on the food prep. “Or, I don’t know, make up a study song? You probably don’t want to hear me sing, but maybe the threat will be an effective incentive …”

Peter chuckles at his bad joke, and without really processing it, Tony reaches out to squeeze at his knee. He means it as a comforting gesture, only realizing after he’s clutching at soft, worn denim that it might make the kid uncomfortable. He can’t decide if it’s better or worse when Peter covers Tony’s hand with his own, rubbing carelessly at the thin web of skin between Tony’s thumb and pointer finger.

“I’m sorry you got stuck with just me here,” Peter says, softly. “I know I wasn’t exactly invited …”

“Don’t be silly, you know you’re welcome,” Tony says, scrunching up his face a little because he did just have this conversation with Rhodes. “I always want you around, Pete.”

That’s too far. It is definitely too far, and Tony’s entire body freezes the second he says it. Peter squeezes his hand, and Tony looks up at him.

“You … You don’t mean that,” Peter says.

The way he says it is just so vulnerable that Tony can’t fall back on the instinct to walk back his words.

“Of course I mean it,” he says. “You’re the only one I …”

No matter how that sentence ends, it’s not going to be good, so Tony just stops speaking, then oh-so-smoothly switches subjects.

“I think we’re about ready for the grill,” he announces, clapping his hands together to hopefully break the stillness that’s fallen over the room. “How about you go and light that bad boy up?”

He hands Peter a lighter and nudges him out onto the porch, cutting off any blusters of protest he might receive.

Tony’s fine as long as they’re busy – cooking, eating, cleaning, trying to get the fire to burn steadily in the fire pit in the back yard.

“Son of a bitch,” he curses as the blasted thing refuses to stay alight for the third time.

There’s a snort from behind him, and Tony turns to see Peter’s eyes glistening in amusement.

“You’ve got to use kindling, Tony,” he says with a chuckle. “Have you just been throwing lighter fluid at the problem?”

Tony’s stomach clenches as Peter laughs at him. The kid calling him by his first name makes want pool there, warm and heavy. He does it rarely enough that it always catches Tony off guard. Usually it’s all deference, Mr. Stark and sir. He hasn’t figured out yet what combination of factors flip the switch in Peter’s brain from Mr. Stark to Tony, but he’d love to find out.

“Ok, so my caveman skills are a little lackluster,” he manages, just so it doesn’t seem like he’s been struck completely dumb. “You gonna judge, or you gonna help an old man out, underoos?”

The kid towers over him as he approaches. Tony’s down on his knees in the dirt from where he’s been trying to breathe life into the fire. From this position, he could bury his face in Peter’s stomach, find out what those very noteworthy abs feel like under his tongue. But he won’t because that would cross about a thousand very carefully drawn lines and _get yourself together before you start actually drooling, Stark,_ he cautions himself _._

Peter gives him a lopsided smile and kneels so he can poke at the fire. With an old newspaper and a few twigs, he’s got the fire roaring in a matter of minutes. Tony settles back in an Adirondack chair to watch him work, capable hands moving efficiently to stack the wood in a pyramid formation and fan the flames to a manageable roar. It’s an engrossing show. Tony can’t help it if he’s got a competency kink. It’s not even surprising, really. He was married to Pepper Potts for half a decade, after all.

When Peter’s done, he hops to his feet, dusting sooty palms off on his jeans and smiling proudly in Tony’s direction.

Tony nods an acknowledgment.

“Alright,” he says. “Between the two of us, you’re the better boy scout. No surprise there.”

“Never was a boy scout, actually,” Peter says.

“Aw, why not?” Tony asks. “Not like you wouldn’t look fetching in the uniform. Too culty? Too much nature?”

Alright, maybe it’s a little flirty, but if he holds himself back completely he might explode. And that’s innocuous enough, isn’t it?

“You really think I’m the boy scout type?” Peter asks, quirking his head to one side in confusion. “Interesting.”

“What?”

“Nothing, Mr. Stark. Just interesting. I’ll be right back.”

Tony watches him jog back up to the house and then concentrates on tracking the flickering flames. This isn’t so bad. He can handle this. Maybe he can’t control his mouth all the time, but he’s got everything else on lock. And Peter’s good enough to let his occasional inappropriate comment roll off his back. It’s fine. It’s fine.

And it is fine until Peter comes back from the house and noisily drags his own chair over so that it nudges against Tony’s and hands him a bottle.

“Beer, underoos?” Tony asks, raising his eyebrows meaningfully at the kid. “Last I checked, you weren’t legal.”

Peter just rolls his eyes at Tony and takes a long pull on his beer.

“You aren’t seriously going to narc on me for having a drink, are you Mr. Stark?” he asks. “Besides, I’m sure you were into much harder stuff than craft beer when you were my age.”

Well, that’s not at all untrue, and Tony isn’t going to make a big deal about the kid drinking with him. But, still. Appearances must be maintained and objections made.

“I thought we agreed you weren’t going to do any of the things I do,” he says.

“Funny enough, I don’t think I ever agreed to that,” Peter shoots back.

“Hmm,” Tony leans forward, settling his elbows on his knees. He flicks his eyes over to Peter. “You’re sassier than I remember, spiderling.”

“Well, you’re getting on in years, sir,” Peter replies, mirroring Tony’s posture. “Your memory can’t be what it used to be.”

Tony hides the ridiculous smile that’s spreading across his face with a gulp of beer. It’s malty and warm with winter spices, a perfect accompaniment to the chill night.

They sink down into companionable silence, watching the fire and drinking. They’re sitting close, Peter’s knee a warm pressure against Tony’s own, both of their heads leant in towards the warmth of the flames. They cast Peter in a burnished glow, like a piece of metal just cooling from molten bright. Tony tries to fight off the image that comes so easily to his mind, of laying Peter out by the living room fireplace on the soft sheepskin rug and chasing that gleam below his collar and further … _Nope. That’s not helpful._

“So, Pete, tell me about your little girlfriend,” he says, instead, grasping desperately for a topic. “How’s she doing? Still fighting the capitalist pigs tooth and nail?”

Peter chokes on his beer, sending a spray out into the fire.

“MJ?” he asks once he’s regained his composure. “You’re asking about MJ?”

“Yeah, tall, pretty, permanent scowl?”

“Right,” Peter nods, speaking slowly. “She’s fine, Mr. Stark. Also, she hasn’t been my girlfriend for a couple years now.”

“Oh,” Tony wasn’t expecting that.

She still comes to visit Peter at the compound pretty frequently, usually taking the opportunity to lecture Tony on wealth taxes or unionized workforces or the minimum wage. He doesn’t even disagree with much of what she says. He’s just always disliked her because she was with Peter and he is, obviously, a toddler who doesn’t want to share his toys.

“So, uh …” Tony recovers gracefully. “No MJ. Seeing anybody special, then?”

“Nope,” Peter replies with a little shrug. “I was dating this guy a few months ago, Harry, but it didn’t work out.”

And Tony might need to reboot his brain now because he definitely had Peter in the straight as an arrow column, and this is the first indication he’s given to Tony that he’s anything but. Not that it changes anything. It doesn’t change anything. He’s still only 20 years old, and Tony’s mentee, and deeply uninterested in Tony as anything other than a role model. So there’s no reason to short circuit here. _Pull it together. Pull it the fuck together._

“I didn’t realize you were …” he starts.

“Bi?” Peter asks with a nervous smile.

“Single,” Tony finishes, because he doesn’t want Peter to think it’s big deal to him, the sexuality thing. Tony’s been pansexual since before there was really a word for it, so why should he care? Shouldn’t that be his priority anyway? Making the kid feel accepted?

“Right.”

For some reason, the kid blushes at that, his already fire-warmed cheeks flushing a shade darker.

“So what happened?” Tony asks. “With your last guy? I feel bad I didn’t know about this. I would have bought you commiseration ice cream or something.”

Despite the flush of embarrassment, Peter’s eyes fix on his. It makes Tony feel pinned to his seat. A long, tense silence builds between them, and he’s not sure where the tension is coming from.

“It wasn’t fair to him,” Peter says at last, eyes still never wavering from Tony. “I wasn’t in love with him.”

He says it so matter-of-factly. At 20, Tony had been a raging dumpster fire of a person. Some days he thinks he’s not that much better now. When he was Peter’s age he couldn’t have told you the difference between love and a good fuck. Would hardly admit to an emotion that big being real at all. It would have made him feel too vulnerable, and Tony has always been a man who loves his armor.

His guts are churning with a mixture of awe and jealousy when he licks his dry lips and says “Poor bastard.”

“Being with Harry was nice,” Peter continues. “He was my first real boyfriend. But it’s different, isn’t it, Mr. Stark? When you find someone you love? When your fingers itch with the need to touch them, your mind fixates, and it feels like your just barely on the edge of doing something crazy just to get through to them? I’d rather have that million times over than something just nice.”

It’s like he’s reaching into Tony’s mind and pulling the words out, and the whole time he speaks he inches closer and closer so that his knees bracket Tony’s and their faces are only a scant few inches apart.

Then Peter shifts his head minutely so that he’s looking up at Tony through the veil of his dark lashes.

“So I didn’t have any choice but to break it off, did I, Mr. Stark? Not really. Not if there’s someone out there I could love like that?”

Tony’s gritting his teeth together so tightly that the joint of his jaw clicks. He can feel Peter’s breathing as a gentle exhalation across his nose. If he kissed him right now he’d taste bitter like the beer they’ve been drinking and smoky like the fire. Tony wants that taste more than he’s ever wanted a glass of whiskey.

His brain goes fuzzy as he leans forward just a millimeter or two, focusing on Peter’s lips, red and starting to chap from the cold night air. He stops when his eyes flick up to meet Peter’s. The expression there is so exposed and uncertain. Tony would hurt him if he bridged the distance. Would break his trust and his heart.

He won’t. Won’t allow that. With a pained sigh Tony veers back from Peter, stands. He allows himself to place one hand on the kid’s fire-warmed shoulder, to squeeze the strong muscles shifting there under thick flannel. He lets himself settle there for a five-count, with Peter under his hand and looking up at him with firelight in his eyes. Then he pulls his hand away and steps back.

“I think I better call it a night kid,” he says. “Promised Rhodey I’d try to get some sleep this trip. You stay out as long as you want, though. Just douse the fire when you’re done.”

Tony doesn’t go to sleep though. He couldn’t. Instead, he watches from his bedroom window. He waits until Peter puts out the fire and retires to the guest bedroom, and then he writes a note and walks out the door. He doesn’t trust himself. The idea of seeing Peter the next morning, ruffled and sleep-warmed, is far too tempting. Better to cut and run now. He’ll have Friday send a car to take him home. Tony can’t stay.

The road on the drive back to the compound is empty and dark. The only station the radio is picking up out here in the boonies is a fuzzy oldies station. As he drives, the members of Fleetwood Mac wail distantly at him.

_“I can still hear you saying you would never break the chain …”_

*

“Be careful with my processor,” Nebula grunts at Tony as he flips one of the metal plates off the side of her head with a screwdriver. “It’s delicate.”

“Relax, Blue,” Tony mumbles around the thin tweezers he’s got gripped between his teeth. “I’ve got a very delicate touch.”

He’s deeply grateful that Nebula’s allowed him to give her a tune-up because today Peter has finally decided to grace Tony with his presence in the lab again. It’s been weeks since he’s seen the kid at all.

Apparently, he’d been really pissed that Tony had left him at the cabin the middle of the night. _Imagine that._ Not that Tony knows that directly. Peter also hasn’t been responding to any of his texts with anything but one-word answers lately.

It’s startling to think how much he’s missed even that small link of communication between them. Misses Peter sending him memes that he only partly understands, links to the most ridiculous articles written about him on the gossip sites, and pictures of the cute dogs he comes across during his commute to class.

He got a definite sense that the kid only asked to come over today out of desperation. He’s working really hard to impress this Professor Conners, and Tony’s certainly the only person Peter knows with the sort of equipment he needs to do extra testing for the guy.

No sunny smile or chipper greeting for Tony today. It’s been only grunts and whispered asides since Peter got here. Right now he’s turned purposefully away from where Tony and Nebula are working, notes spread out chaotically across a work bench.

So maybe Tony didn’t need a chaperone after all. Except, even with Peter pissed as hell at him, his gaze is still drawn helplessly to the tensed muscles of Peter’s back, the way he runs his fingers agitatedly through tangled hair.

“Ouch,” Nebula cries, and Tony turns his attention back to her to see he’s snapped one of the filaments running through the circuitry in her head.

“Shit,” Tony says, reaching immediately for his soldering iron. “Sorry, Blue. Hand slipped.”

“I would really rather your full attention be on this task,” she tells him, with a scowl.

Tony tries to act affronted, widening his eyes and pouting.

“You have my full attention,” he insists.

“That was not my ocular wire you cut,” she replies, pointedly.

“Not yet,” Tony counters. “My hand could always slip a little further.”

Nebula just scoffs.

“Do not make threats you do not plan to deliver on,” she says.

Tony smiles at that. She’s getting better and better at understanding the nuances of language, or at least in the way that Tony uses it, always partially weaponized. 

He’s about to reply when Peter stands abruptly, stool screeching against the concrete floor. He doesn’t say anything, just grips his hands into fists and stalks out of the lab.

Once he’s gone, Tony allows himself to slump in his seat.

“Guess our chatting was getting on his nerves,” he mutters, scrubbing at his face with a hand.

Nebula eyes him curiously.

“Would you like to know what I think?” she asks.

“I would not,” Tony says.

He doesn’t know how he would even begin to explain things to Nebula, what he’s done to piss the kid off and why.

“You might find it helpful.”

“Nope.”

“Fine,” Nebula says with a shrug. “As you wish.”

“Thank you,” Tony says on a sigh. “Now, let’s take a look at that thermal regulator. You said you’ve been running a little hot lately?”

“By a few degrees,” Nebula confirms. “I think you’ll need a voltmeter to get a good reading on things.”

“Shit,” Tony says, rifling through one of the numerous piles of debris on his bench. “Where did I put that? Dum-E!”

The little bot rolls over to them whistling.

“Voltmeter?”

Dum-E sweeps his arm back and forth, a negative.

“What do you mean you don’t know where it is?” Tony asks. “That’s like half your job.”

“It is not his fault your organization system is chaotic and indecipherable,” Nebula says.

“My organization system is artistic and organic, which is why you don’t understand it,” Tony says.

“I think I saw the voltmeter last in the supply closet,” Nebula offers.

“Bingo,” Tony says with a snap. “That’s exactly what I was going to say. Sit tight, Blue. I’ll be right back.”

Tony leaves the main lab space and goes down the little hallway that houses the server room and supply closet. It’s not until he’s stepped into the dimly lit, narrow space that he notices it’s already occupied.

Peter whirls around as Tony steps in. He shuffles back until he hits the shelving that lines three of the four walls, clutching a pile of microscope slides to his chest.

For a second, Tony considers turning right around and walking out, but that’s just childish. Tony’s a grown up. He can do this. His eyes scan the shelves, and he reaches up over Peter’s shoulder for the voltmeter he came for.

“’Scuse me, kid,” he says with a grimace.

The space is tiny, maybe four foot by four foot, and made to feel smaller with the shelving. They’re close enough that he can feel the heat radiating off Peter’s body, and Tony feels himself flush at their nearness. Peter’s eyes track him as he moves, and he feels them like a physical touch running down his arm and skimming his face. He sucks in a breath and holds it, afraid that even that might give him away somehow. That his very breath might betray him.

Then the door slams shut, and they both jump at the noise, elbows and knees bumping. It’s enough to jostle Tony out of his trance, and he grabs the voltmeter and turns to the door.

The handle won’t turn. He rattles it a couple times, just to make sure, but it won’t budge. Why is the door locked? Tony bangs on it with a flat palm.

“Hey,” he yells. “Hello?”

It’s Nebula’s voice that replies, muffled by the reinforced steel of the door, but clear enough that she must be right on the other side.

“I will let you both out once you have talked,” she says. “So talk.”

Betrayed. Tony has been betrayed _again._

He slams a fist against the door, but it doesn’t even vibrate it’s so strong.

In the back of the little closet, Peter drops his slides and curls his head into his hands.

“No, no, no, no, no …” he mutters.

“Violet Beauregarde, you open the door this instant or when I get out I will disassemble you and use your parts to make a karaoke machine!” Tony shouts. “You will spend the rest of your life listening to off-key renditions of Heart power ballads, and I will enjoy every second of your misery.”

He’s a bit winded when he finishes that tirade. Luckily, Peter is right there beside him to continue. But instead of shouting, the kid puts a palm to the door gently. He looks sad for some reason. Defeated.

“C’mon, Neb,” he calls softly. “This isn’t what we talked about. It isn’t even romantic. Let us out.”

“Ugh,” Nebula groans. “You are both exhausting. And exceedingly stupid. I will be back when you have settled this.”

Tony can hear her footsteps retreating down the hall. He’s fucked. He’s just fucked now. He and Peter are standing so close that their shoulders are brushing together. Peter has nice shoulders. They’re surprisingly wide and strong for his stature. Tony would like to put his teeth right at the dip before shoulder becomes neck and bite down, leave a mark. This is the reason he’s fucked. Because his brain is a cesspool.

Peter still hasn’t moved his hand from the door.

“I can … I can break it down,” he says. “We’re fine. I can break it.”

“You can’t,” Tony tells him.

“Really think I can.”

“Pete, it’s Hulk proof. Might as well not strain yourself.”

Peter turns to look at him, his face all confusion.

“Why would the supply closet be Hulk proof?” he asks. “And why does it even lock? No one’s gonna steal your extra beakers, Mr. Stark.”

“Second shelf in the back, behind the petri dishes,” Tony mutters.

It takes a step and half for Peter to reach the shelf in question. He rummages around behind the Petri dishes and pulls out a bag of chocolate-covered wasabi peas, and another of dried blueberries.

He holds them out to Tony with a slack jaw.

“You made the supply closet Hulk proof to hide your snacks?” Peter asks, incredulously. “Really?”

Ok, yes. In retrospect it was a very stupid move, but Brucie eats a lot now that he’s always Hulk-sized, and sometimes Tony forgets to ingest anything but coffee for days and he needs an emergency pick-me-up.

“Have you seen that guy when he’s peckish?” he lobs back. “There would be nothing left if I didn’t.”

“Why is my life like this?” Peter asks the heavens.

The kid is surprisingly twitchy for the situation. He keeps taking one step forward, as though he wants to pace the room, realizing there’s nowhere to go, and then stepping back. Tony can’t help but wander why.

He knows why he’s twitchy. He’s got himself plastered to the door opposite Peter because it’s the best way to remind him that touching his protégé without express permission is a bad idea. And Peter is already mad at him, so touching would make it worse.

Peter’s not claustrophobic or anything, though. They’ve been stuck in smaller spaces on missions, and it’s never got him in a state like this. Tony’s mind goes into fix-it mode, which is highly preferable to the mode where he thinks about running his fingers over biceps that Peter is flexing now as he tugs at his already-wild hair. He’s not thinking about that, though. He’s thinking about Peter’s immediate reaction to Nebula’s trick. _This isn’t what we talked about._

Tony’s mind feels like an engine that won’t turn over. It’s working furiously, but he can’t quite get it to do what it’s supposed to do.

“What did you mean when you were talking to Nebula?” he asks, words coming slowly, eyebrows inching together as his mind whirs. “You said …”

_It isn’t even romantic …_

Peter’s entire body goes stone still. No more twitching, barely any breathing. He looks at Tony dead-on with wide, sad eyes.

“You were ignoring me,” he says, in the smallest voice Tony’s ever heard from him. “It felt like we never got to see each other anymore.”

Tony feels like his heart is being held in a fist and squeezed so hard it might pop.

“I wasn’t,” he insists. “We had lab time every month. What are you even …”

“You made sure we were never alone together,” Peter accuses, and he’s not wrong. That’s well-spotted, actually. “I missed you.”

“I just …”

“It’s not an excuse,” Peter talks over him, words coming faster. “I know it was stupid. But I felt like I was going crazy and I had to do something. So I asked your friends for help.”

“You asked Nat and Rhodey and …”

“Nebula, yeah,” Peter says. “I asked them to set us up. I thought if I could just get you alone.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, bangs his head lightly against the shelf behind him.

“You thought what, exactly, Pete?” Tony asks. His throat is so dry that the words come out in a harsh rasp. This can’t actually be happening.

“I think what I said to them specifically was that if I could just spend ten minutes alone with you, locked in a closet or something, then maybe I’d get up the nerve to tell you how I feel. I just forgot that Neb’s still not so good with the metaphors. I should have said desert island. That would have been nicer, right?”

Peter forces a laugh, but it dies quickly. His heart isn’t in it. 

Tony’s heartbeat is so loud and insistent in his ears that he can hardly hear himself when he says “How you feel …” He’s having a shocking amount of trouble finding the ends of his sentences.

“I know,” Peter says, squaring his shoulders, but keeping his eyes screwed shut. “I shouldn’t have done it. At first I really thought you might feel the same way. But then I made you so uncomfortable that you had to run off into the night just to get away from me. I’m really sorry, Tony. You tried to set a boundary with me, and I kept crossing it. I promise I won’t do that anymore. Just … I don’t want to lose you again.”

Peter buries his head in his hands, slumping down. It’s the defeat in the curve of his back and the strain in the tendons of his hands that finally jostles Tony out of his disbelieving stillness. Two steps, not even, that’s all it takes to tuck his body in close to Peter’s. He curls around the other man, lets his hands grasp delicate wrists and tug Peter’s hands away from his face.

There are unshed tears hovering on the edge of his eyelids when he looks up at Tony.

“Pete,” he says, softly, thumb sweeping the hollow beneath one eye. “There is literally nothing you could do to lose me, I …”

Tony’s words rarely fail him. Even in the face of death, he’s the man who’s got a snappy one-liner to fall back on. But looking into Peter’s eyes, he doesn’t. They widen, pupils dilating as Tony’s thumb migrates to the dip just below the swell of Peter’s lips, only barely avoiding his mouth.

Tony sees it now, that when Peter looks at him, it isn’t just with friendly affection or respect, like he thought. Instead, it looks like he might actually want all the things that Tony wants to give.

When Peter reaches up to cover Tony’s wandering hand with his own, it’s because that hand is shaking.

“Tony,” he exhales, and the steel rod of control that’s been braced against Tony’s back snaps.

The force with which he slams their mouths together might give a weaker man whiplash. Tony definitely thinks he tastes a metallic hint of blood in the kiss, but he can’t tell who it’s from. It doesn’t matter.

Peter sighs into his mouth, and Tony licks inside, tasting warm skin and stale coffee. Peter’s tongue slides against his own, and Tony has to shuffle in a little closer, to bring their bodies fully together, chest to knee. 

The movement pushes Peter further against the shelves, sending a shower of notepads down on their heads. With more coordination than he logically should have right now, Tony spins them so that he can press Peter up against the closet door instead.

He breaks from Peter’s mouth so he can finally run his tongue along a cheekbone tinged charmingly pink.

“Every boundary I set up,” he says, breathlessly. “Was so I wouldn’t do any of this.”

Peter laughs at that, loose and happy, and there isn’t a single part of him that Tony doesn’t want desperately. He sinks to his knees with a jolt, rucking up Peter’s t-shirt so he can mouth at those abdominals. They twitch and flutter under his lips, and it’s even better than Tony imagined it would be.

When he lowers his head to nose along the join between Peter’s leg and groin, the kid moans his name in a way that Tony wants to record and listen back to on repeat. Then his hands are in Tony’s hair, tugging gently to get him to pull back.

He allows himself to be pulled, gazing up the long line of Peter’s torso to his face, which looks conflicted. That’s not the expression he’s supposed to have in this situation.

“This isn’t,” Peter says, quietly. “This isn’t just for while we’re locked in a closet, right?”

He looks so vulnerable and unsure when he asks it that Tony has to stand again, despite the creaking protest of his knees, just to reassure him with a kiss.

“This is for as long as you’ll let me,” he says, doing his best to kiss Peter even though he can’t stop smiling. It complicates the process. “And I hope that’s a long fucking time.”

He feels rather than sees the curve of agreement spread across Peter’s mouth. Tony slides a thigh in between Peter’s, thinking he wants to watch the kid fall apart the first time. He’s not disappointed when Peter immediately starts to move his hips, pressing his hard length against Tony’s leg. He bites his lips, eyelids fluttering to half-mast. Tony cups Peter’s face with both hands, tilts it up just to better frame it. Perfect. It’s perfect.

He hardly notices the click coming from behind Peter’s back, but it’s hard to ignore when they go from pressed up tight to free-falling through the air. All of the bones in Tony’s body jangle unpleasantly when they hit cold concrete, and he groans and wraps his limbs around Peter, retroactively trying to protect him from impact.

Peter, for his part, just looks a little dazed.

“What?” he asks.

Tony’s wondering the same thing. He looks up to see three bewildered faces observing them from above.

Natasha, Rhodey and Nebula stand back a few feet. It’s Rhodey’s voice that finally breaks the shocked silence hanging between them.

“I can’t believe your thing is the one that worked,” he says to Nebula. “Lock them in a closet? That’s not even creative.”

“But effective,” Nebula says with a shrug. “Also, you owe me 50 Terran units.”

“Hey, no,” Rhodey protests. “I’m not paying you when my idea clearly helped. I loosened that jar before you opened it, so you can’t take all the credit.”

“Can we not just appreciate a job well done?” Natasha asks, arms crossed and lips twitching with mirth.

“No,” Rhodey and Nebula both say at the same time.

“I want credit,” Rhodey says. “Do you realize how long I’ve been dealing with his moping ass?”

“We all dealt with that,” Nebula says. “And I will have my payment in units or in flesh. I’m not picky.”

Tony breaks up the developing shouting match by loudly clearing his throat.

“First of all,” he says from his place on the floor. “I don’t appreciate being manipulated in this way, and I will be expecting an apology from all of you.”

“Oh, come off it, man,” Rhodey says. “What’s a little manipulation between friends.”

“A little gratitude might not hurt,” Natasha pipes in.

“Yeah,” Rhodey says. “Gratitude.”

Tony ignores them. He pushes himself to his feet, and holds out a hand to pull Peter up. Once they’re both upright, he wraps an arm around Peter’s shoulder, placing a kiss at his temple just because he can.

“You alright, kid?” he asks, and Peter nods, grinning up at him. “Good. Second, the apologies can wait because you’re all going to want to clear out of here.”

“Wait, we’re not celebrating?” Rhodey asks. “I bought champagne. Also, a really specific, non-returnable custom banner.”

“You’re gonna leave,” Tony says shoving at Peter and turning his back on the rest. “Because this closet may be Hulk-proof, but it isn’t sound-proof.”

His words are met by a chorus of groans. Tony ignores them. Once he’s pushed Peter back inside the closet he turns to give his friend a little wave.

“What did I say, people?” he says, smiling widely. “Scatter.”

Then he closes the closet door in their faces. He’ll get them all really nice Christmas presents this year. They’ll deal.

“Your friends are actually pretty great,” Peter says, pressing up against Tony and mouthing at his collar bone. “I’m pretty sure none of this would be happening without their help.”

“Oh, they’re the best,” Tony agrees easily. “But you can’t let them know that. They’ll get cocky. Now, where were we?”

**Author's Note:**

> So this was originally based off an anon prompt for an event that I couldn't get my shit together to participate in on time. 
> 
> It took too long, but writing this ridiculous ball of fluff helped me break through a frustrating bout of writers block. 
> 
> Title from "Alone" by Heart. Also, I made a playlist that you can listen to here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4aF81IUqrL1GGTr4U76Pqa?si=VKFQ4MMbQue74oMLKtYHUw.
> 
> Thanks for reading, everybody!


End file.
